


Blind Spot

by sunflowerwonder



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Complete, Cyberpunk AU, Keith is a courier for Lotor, M/M, Sexual References, Shiro is a boxer, copious amounts of neon, finding love in hopeless places, half-galra keith with more prominent galra traits, late night post-fight dinner dates, technically a post-alien invasion AU too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-25 04:36:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14969243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerwonder/pseuds/sunflowerwonder
Summary: It's dangerous to walk alone amongst the twisting alleys and neon haze of the post-invasion metropolis better known as The Empire.But in some ways, it's more dangerous to allow yourself a companion.





	Blind Spot

It was easy to be set adrift in the twisting alleys and neon haze of the post-invasion metropolis better known as The Empire. Buildings built upon buildings threatened ease of navigation. Smoke cloaked alleys like fog. Senseless streets filled with nothing but brothels and bars and all other manner of distractions vied for attention until it was difficult to determine where one was going and why they were even bothering to go there in the first place. It was common for a man to enter The Empire and wash up dead on a sidewalk two weeks later, penniless and naked. It was more common to simply disappear.   
  
Takashi Shirogane had saved himself from such a fate more times than he cared to count. He'd fought hard for his existence, worked to game his chances for survival. It was easy to carve out a life in a seedy alley of The Empire underground if you kept your head down and fulfilled your duties. Paid your debts and forgot names. Never took favors. Distrusted smiles. Watched your drinks.   
  
It also helped to know how to throw a punch.   
  
Shiro was remarkably gifted in the art of the latter. The Champion, they called him. Or at least that's what the alien invaders-turned-capitalists plastered across the neon-trimmed marquee. "The safest bet," and "moneyprinter," were thrown around just as often. He was fierce in the ring, fiercer in living up to his reputation. Fear of death kept his breaths steady. Monetary security smoothed over his anxieties of breaking unfamiliar jaws.   
  
Boxing was a double barreled shotgun of bloody entertainment and gambling racket in the hollowed out fighting rings of The Empire. Violent, brutal, and often to the death, even the most desperate of alley scum steered clear of the death sentence profession. Shiro was no indebted streetpunk, though, as was made quickly apparent to anyone that dared to underestimate him. He was military trained. Level headed. Deadly. He'd long since hardened to The Empire, earned his place within it. He truly was its Champion—whether he adorned the title or not.   
  
"Nice fight tonight."   
  
Shiro grounded himself from distant thoughts as his eyes came to focus on a sink gushing water from squeaking pipes. The liquid washed pink over the cut knuckles and bloodied handwraps of his left fist. He realized he hadn't moved his hands from the stream in minutes.   
  
"Hey there, resident space cadet," the voice called again from somewhere behind him. "Did the moon colony finally accept your application or are you still down here in the gutter with me?"   
  
Shiro grimaced at the grating squeal the tap gave when he turned its handle off. The water slowed to a halt, the last of the cloudy red swirling down the drain alongside the guilt of the night's events. He reached for the towel around his shoulder to wipe at his face.   
  
"Yeah," Shiro said. He looked behind him to see Keith standing in the entrance of the fighter's locker room, slumped against the doorframe. The half-alien's posture was a formulated expression of passivity. His face betrayed a hint of genuine concern.   
  
"I said: you fought a damn good fight tonight."   
  
"Yeah?" Shiro replied. His vision was still blurred around the edges but Keith visiting him after bouts was routine. And routine was subsequently grounding. It was laughable to be anchoring himself to such habitual monotony, but Keith's violet stare was sobering in its familiarity.   
  
"You did good," Keith said. "Real good, Shiro. I mean it."   
  
"Good," Shiro said. He ran his robotic hand through his hair, shoving back the sweat-slicked locks of early grey. "That's good. Your boss say as much?"   
  
Keith stiffened. His large, Galra ears flared. "Lotor is not my boss,” he said. Then, “Technically.”   
  
"Mmhm," Shiro hummed. He let out a soft laugh, already feeling closer to himself. "You run his errands for fun then?"   
  
"I run his errands for an under-the-table commission, as you well know," Keith said. He shoved himself away from the doorframe in order to step fully into the aging locker room. Above him, a sickly fluorescent light flickered between teal and black. "Why do you suddenly care? Jealous?"   
  
Shiro raised his eyebrows. "Me?"   
  
"You could always put in a request for a personal assistant, you know.” Keith was near now, arms just a little too long to be entirely human curling around Shiro's neck. "You make him a fair amount of money, Champion, and I come heartily recommended as a courier. He might not mind giving me up if it was you."   
  
Shiro felt a rush of breath snort out his nose. His hands found a firm place on Keith's hips. "Is that why you've been working so hard? To ask for a reassignment? You're too attractive to be this devious."   
  
Keith smiled a fanged grin. "Is that why you fuck me?"   
  
"That's why I'm inviting you to dinner."   
  
"You paying?"   
  
"If you're paying me."   
  
Keith pressed a kiss against Shiro's lips, then. Short and obligatory in an almost inconvenienced manner as he pulled an arm away to riffle within the satchel strapped around his body. He removed a crisp, grey, paper-wrapped package. It was heavy where he placed it in Shiro's hand.   
  
"Damn," Shiro said. A rare curse.   
  
Keith returned, elbows hooked around Shiro's shoulders and pupils alien in diameter. His next kiss was softer, longer.   
  
"Like I said," he murmured against Shiro's mouth. "You had a good fight."   
  
Shiro could tell the payment would cover his rent and then some. His cuts of his winnings were getting bigger. His Galra employers, happier.   
  
"We could go for something nicer tonight," he said. "Varzo steak?"   
  
"Street food," Keith replied.   
  
"Human?"   
  
"Japanese."   
  
"Takoyaki."   
  
"Done."   
  
Keith dragged himself away to give a pleased expression and readjust his delivery bag. The miserable blue-white lighting of the locker room washed away the purple of his ears and made him look decisively human from the right angle. Pretty, if slightly off.   
  
"You're still paying," he said.   
  
"I assumed," Shiro replied.   
  
"Yes, well, didn't want to blindside you." Keith flashed his gaze back at Shiro. "Boss."   
  
A harsh breath bubbled up the half-alien’s frame, then. Keith's laughter was sharp where it bounced off the cracked tile floor and low ceilings, face thoroughly entertained.   
  
"Is just the thought of me being your employer already such a joke?" Shiro asked.   
  
"Yes, but you've surprised me before," Keith said, with the glint of a smile, turning on his heels towards the door he'd entered though. "C'mon, Champion. I'm starving."   


 

\----------

  
  
Shiro was well aware of Keith's profession.  
  
Being a delivery boy for the Empire's largest Galra crime syndicate was rare and dangerous work, and Keith was prized for his speed and subtlety. Even with intimate knowledge of Keith's reputation, Shiro still found himself amazed at the sight of his companion trailing effortlessly ahead through the clustered crowds of bar prowlers and late-night street patrons. Keith seemed to weave through the aggressive and the intoxicated like water through fingers. He sidestepped and switched paces. Slipped through slices of space between elbows without stepping on any literal or metaphorical toes. Keith's interspecies features—which Shiro had so often found striking in their more intimate moments—served as an ingenious camouflage within the neon-lit streets. Only in a brothel would he be considered noteworthy. Against a backdrop of greyscale buildings and increasingly alien faces he was a shadow. A fast one, only barely registered before slinking out of view. Shiro was reminded of the many flight simulations he had performed while training at the Garrison. Of the competency, tact, and grace required to maneuver a spaceship through a digital asteroid belt. In another world, at another time, Keith would have probably made for a good pilot.  
  
Shiro struggled to match Keith's stride as they wove through a particularly dense alleyway within the food district. As Shiro bumped shoulders and avoided glares he witnessed Keith be both seen and not seen. Noticed but soon forgotten. Keith was a hybrid, a half-breed: too human to be a part of the Galra-run syndicates that ruled the city, too Galra to be part of a human resistance league. A lost, indeterminate being even the most keen of eyes would fail to register on the murky streets of The Empire. A blind spot.  
  
There was a reason Keith transported cash, drugs, and deadly information for the leader of the local Galra faction himself. Keith's determined gait was ceaseless until he arrived at his destination. Shiro stumbled to the front of the restaurant a full half-minute behind him, out of breath from his futile attempts to keep up.   
  
Keith stood, impatient, in wait. He looked at home bathed in the red glow of a rather garish neon octopus sign, whose flashing tentacles shifted the highlights and shadows of his features. Below the half-Galra's boots, recent rain mixed with the oil-coated asphalt and formed shimmering, iridescent pools. They reflected the lights of the street in a splay of scattered colors. It was an ethereal sight, made even stranger by the sudden baring of Keith's fangs.  
  
"What," he demanded, shrugging down under Shiro's gaze. He could be surprisingly sheepish at times.  
  
"You're beautiful," Shiro stated, simply. His posture straightened as he righted himself in recovery from the almost-chase. Keith, in turn, stepped forward. His arm tucked nicely within Shiro's own but he didn't respond further. Shiro caught his stare—something deep and serious and /warning—but he kept their pact of silence.  
  
The stall the two of them stepped into smelled overwhelmingly of fish. As soon as Shiro passed through the loose curtains separating the small shop from the cold, wet streetside a blast of hot air and the distinctive pop of frying batter welcomed him into the intoxicating lure of comfort food. Keith broke away to slide onto the stool at the very edge of the short bar. Shiro took the seat next to him.  
  
"Two shots. Whatever you've got that's strongest," Keith called to the creature taking up the majority of the space in the small square kitchen over the bar counter. The great, hulking green tentacled monster had limbs already managing both the grill and the scullery, but it spared two more from its viscous body to pour Keith his drinks with an incomprehensible gurgle.  
  
"I'm not in the mood to drink tonight," Shiro said as Keith lifted the small glasses up from the bar.  
  
"Never said one was for you," Keith scoffed. He kicked back both drinks in a row. Shiro had little idea if the double had been intended from the start or merely a cover for Shiro's rejected drink. He never knew, never pried into the deeper clicks and gears of Keith's head. Keith preferred it that way.  
  
"You want to split a boat?" Keith asked, setting the shot glasses down. His ears had perked up, curious.  
  
"Only if you're not going to eat more than your fair half," Shiro replied.  
  
"I told you last time," Keith said. "I didn't realize you'd only eaten two of the damn things. For being a literal killer in the arena you'd think you'd be more assertive with your food."  
  
Shiro simply turned his attention to a spare tentacle tapping impatiently at the top of the bar.   
  
"Two sixes," he said, raising two of his fingers at the creature.  
  
"And another round for me," Keith tacked on.   
  
Shiro nodded at the tentacle in confirmation. "And a glass of water for me. Thanks."  
  
Their drinks were served quickly and soon the sizzle of fresh batter could be heard upon the heated grill. Shiro let the scent of familiar food overwhelm his indulgent desire to join Keith in smoothing anxieties over with whatever was currently being tipped back. Someone had to get them home, after all.  
  
"Are you staying with me tonight?" Shiro asked. His water had a sliver of Evra fruit in it and was subsequently icy hot in his hand.  
  
"Mm?" Keith hummed, lime-colored liquid tipping into his mouth.  
  
"I just wanted to ask. Before you got absolutely hammered."  
  
"Don't I usually?" Keith  said. He lowered his now-empty shot.  
  
"Get hammered?"  
  
"No. Go home with you."  
  
"Oh. Yeah, you do. But," Shiro paused. "I don't want to assume that just because you have—"  
  
"Shiro," Keith said, stern, head leaning forward until Shiro could smell the alien intoxicant on his breath. "I admire the gentleman in you, I really do. But I think you need to realize I'd let you fuck me in an alley while high on Zaryo powder."  
  
Shiro wasn't sure what to say to that. Never really had been where Keith's bold and off-balancing nature was concerned.  
  
"Because I trust you," Keith clarified. Then, he turned back towards an awaiting tentacle. "...And that's why I'm ordering another shot."  
  
Shiro let out an exasperated sigh. "You're going to blow my entire winnings on alcohol."  
  
"Not technically alcohol," Keith grinned.  
  
"Not technically your money, either."  
  
Keith's head cocked, coy and confident and pleased with the glass placed in his hand.  
  
"Don't worry, Champ,” he said. “I'll find a way to make it up to you."  


 

\----------

  
  
"You sure I'm not Japanese?"  
  
A borderline drunk Keith phrased the question in the exact moment Shiro bit into one of his served dumplings. He held up a hand for Keith to wait as he gingerly chewed on steaming hot dough until it was mashed enough to swallow.  
  
"Yeah," Shiro said, reaching for his water glass. He took a large drink. "Your face... I'm not sure. You're definitely Asian--- Korean, maybe---but who knows where the human stops and the alien features begin."  
  
"That is sort of the grander concept of being a half-Galra."  
  
"And here I thought the overarching point was to look handsome," Shiro said.  
  
Keith scrunched his face. "Shut up,” he said.

  
Shiro gave him a small, playful smile and said, "If it's bothering you, you should know you're fairly attractive by human standards.”

  
"Quit talking out of your ass," Keith replied. He shoved a whole dumpling in his mouth and refused Shiro's offer for water when the molten dough hit his tongue.   
  
"It's true," Shiro said.   
  
Keith motioned for another round and Shiro took the hint to cease talking.   
  
Their dinner settled into subsequent silence. They were quiet compared to the banging of pans in the over-the-counter kitchen and rancorous cheers of the barparty next to them, celebrating some sort of turf war victory. It was a familiar silence, though. A welcome one.   
  
"...Hey Shiro?"   
  
Shiro glanced up at Keith from where he had been picking apart a dumpling he was too full to finish. He had separated the chunks of octopus into a small pile at the edge of his plate. "Yeah?"   
  
Keith had settled from a stage of exuberant drunkenness to something more reserved, and even a bit sad. He stabbed at his last dumpling with a chopstick.   
  
"So... definitely not Japanese?"   
  
Shiro nodded. An ache of tiredness was settling into his bones. The adrenaline of his arena match was fading to exhaustion. "Definitely. You'd look a lot more like me if you were,” he said.

  
Keith paused with his takoyaki half submerged in a sauce dish. "...You sure?"   
  
Shiro felt a quick breath of laughter escape from his mouth. "You're really hung up this, aren't you?"   
  
Keith's cheeks purpled in a foreign flush and his ears lowered down.   
  
"I just think it would be nice, you know," he huffed. "To have something in common."   
  
"We have a lot of things in common," Shiro said, voice smooth and kind but not entirely devoid of its teasing lilt. "For example, we are both at least 50% human."   
  
“That’s not funny.”   
  
“And at least 50% asian! We’re practically related.”   
  
"Shuddup. You know damn well what I'm talking about, Shiro."   
  
"Do I?"   
  
"Like, a culture," Keith said, slowly, an attempt to explain: "I'm never going to be accepted as a Galra. It'd be nice to have a... a group. A human group."   
  
Shiro blinked.   
  
"You want to be cultured? And in a group? With other people?" he said, laughing fully now. "Keith, it's like I barely know you."   
  
Keith's lips curled up to reveal his sharp fangs. "I thought I told you to shut that human mouth."   
  
"So you did," Shiro said. Keith stuffed another entire dumpling into his mouth. He grimaced through the heat.   
  
"If it makes you feel any better," Shiro added, handing Keith his glass of water. Keith swiped it begrudgingly this time. "I think you're one of a kind. No group necessary."   
  
Keith swallowed his bite.   
  
"You're just saying that because you're about to fuck me."   
  
"Yes, Keith," Shiro said, voice dry, "That's exactly why."   
  


 

\-------------

  
  
  
By the time Shiro drug the sleepy form of Keith and both their full stomachs back to his apartment the night had simmered to something just quiet enough to not be up to anything good. Shiro was thankful to have them home safe. Thankful for the way Keith mouthed at his jaw.  
  
"Up," he said, patting Keith lightly on his thigh. The arms around his shoulders tensed as Keith clung to them and pulled his legs up and around Shiro's waist. Shiro, in turn, hugged the half-Galra close as he shuffled them both back into his bedroom.  
  
"'M tired of working for that trustfund alien dick-prince," Keith was mumbling into Shiro's neck.  
  
"I know," Shiro replied, soft, with one hand weighted on Keith's back and the other scooped beneath his ass.  
  
"It's fucking illogical what I have to put up with—I swear if I smell another spoiled Ornet shipment in my /life—"  
  
"I know, I know."  
  
"Mm. I wanna be with you, Shiro."  
  
Shiro paused at the foot of the mattress pad on his apartment's floor. Keith slid away from him, eager to nestle down into it.  
  
"I'll look into it," Shiro said.  
  
Keith was already winding his way atop the covers and shrugging off his bag and jacket. He tossed his to the side, giving a smile when it landed skillfully atop the floor lamp and sent the whole room into an orange-grey shadow. He looked back to Shiro, legs curling on the sheets. "Well?"  
  
Shiro gave him a curt nod. "I said yes. I'll have to talk to Acxa. See if Lotor is in a generous mood—"  
  
"No, no. Not that. Shiro."  
  
Shiro sidestepped a pair of pants being chucked at him.  
  
Keith glared. "Are you coming to bed or not?"  
  
"Oh," he said, a light laugh on the edge of his voice. "Yes. Sorry. Distracted."  
  
"Well stop it and get down here," Keith demanded.  
  
Shiro slid his top up and over his head in one fluid action and moved to shove down his warmup sweats. He kneeled to click off the lamp, sending the room into proper darkness. When he crawled towards the bed he heard Keith's hands fumbling for him long before he slipped into their reach. Keith was eager to get close to him, and Shiro happily draped a heavy arm across Keith's torso and buried his head in the crook of his dear hybrid's neck. It was warm. A deep, filling warmth. Between the comfort meal and Keith's body heat Shiro felt a conspiratory lull to sleep.  
  
"So," Keith said into the pitch dark. His body squirmed beneath the heaviness of Shiro's own.  
  
Shiro craned open his eyes. "Yes?"  
  
"So, are you going to do something?"  
  
Was he?  
  
"Patience," Shiro said.  
  
"Do you want me to—"  
  
"Patience," Shiro repeated. "Let me have this."  
  
The contact felt good, soothing, and most importantly non-violent. To cradle something as precious as Keith, to feel the warm purple beating in his veins, it felt like an honor. So Shiro laid there. Blissed in all their shared contact.  
  
That is, until Keith again grew impatient.  
  
"Do you think it's weird for that guy at the takoyaki stall?"  
  
Shiro did not bother opening his eyes this time.  
  
"What?" he asked, head pressed against the underside of Keith's jaw.  
  
"The alien that made our meal. Do you think it's weird for him to cook with, like, octopus."  
  
Shiro's eyebrows furrowed. "What are you even talking about?"   
  
"You know," Keith said. "Because. Tentacles. Isn't that vaguely cannibalistic?"  
  
"Vaguely," Shiro repeated. "A tentacled creature with no connection to Earth is acting as a traditional Japanese streetfood vendor and you're curious about his thoughts on cannibalism."  
  
"It's a genuine line of questioning," Keith said.  
  
"You're drunk," Shiro muttered. He pressed a kiss to Keith's neck. "The worst kind, too. One that acts like they're coherent."  
  
"I am in complete control of myself, thanks."  
  
"Keith," Shiro said. "You're drunk."  
  
Keith groaned. His annoyance was evident by the shift he gave in Shiro's grip. "You're lucky you're so charming," he mumbled. He had somehow shimmied himself down to Shiro's level, clicking their foreheads together in an action that was more of a rough headbutt than an affectionate tap. "And handsome. And kind. So unreasonably, obnoxiously kind. You kill people for a living, for other's entertainment. You have no reason to be half as decent as you—"  
  
"Alright," Shiro said. "I think it's time you got some rest. You've got work tomorrow."   
  
"See? Even now you're so disgustingly worried about me I can't even rile you up enough to get laid. Every other guy in this town would have me flipped over by now, work schedules be damned. But you won't do that—you would never do that. And I love that about you. It's so deeply oxymoronic. You're the brother I never had. I love you."  
  
Shiro stilled at Keith's final words. They were simple, even known, but nonetheless previously unspoken. Keith was too busy rubbing his temple against Shiro's like a cat marking its favorite corner to notice the stiffen of Shiro's body, the slight exhale of surprise. Shiro dipped his head forward to kiss Keith. Suddenly but extensive. Breathless.  
  
"...I love you too," he said, softly, when he pulled back. Keith nodded in affirmation of this.  
  
"Good," he said. The word was surprisingly slurred, mumbled out like a gargle from the back of his throat.  
  
"I think you should get some rest now."  
  
"Nah."  
  
"Keith—"  
  
"Just," Keith heaved a breath. "Let me do something? Please? I owe you for dinner."  
  
"No," Shiro said. "I'm tired."  
  
Keith scoffed. "So I get dinner and a good night’s sleep? I'm glad you chose punches over business school, Shiro. You wouldn't make it a day trading on the streets."  
  
"Fortunately,” Shiro said. “I am so good at punches I can afford to make such illogical decisions."  
  
Keith seemed to think over his words for a moment.  
  
"…So we're just not going to do this?" he asked.  
  
"Are you alright with that?"  
  
"I mean, yes," he said. "I just—You bought me dinner—"  
  
"I thought I told you I loved you."  
  
Shiro heard nothing. He waited, patient, for Keith's voice to again cut through the dark.  
  
"...I guess I'm not used to that, then," Keith said, finally. The words seemed to echo. “Yeah, okay. This is fine.”  
  
"Don't think too hard about it," Shiro mumbled. He was exhausted, and his words failed to carry the weight he so firmly intended. "Just settle down, get some sleep. I love you."  
  
Unseen lips pressed against Shiro's face.  
  
“You get some sleep,” Keith said. "I love you too."  
  
  



End file.
